


temporary fix

by hawberries



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Animal Traits, Bathing/Washing, Beta Iwaizumi Hajime, Group Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Omega Oikawa Tooru, Scent Marking, Tender Sex, like a lot of extremely tortured and romantic scent marking, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 20:32:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawberries/pseuds/hawberries
Summary: Overheard phone conversation:“And you’ve shampooed his hair how many times now? Hmm. Yeah, that’s not technically a bromance.”(Oikawa has lots of sex, none of it with Iwaizumi. Both of them are sad about it. Almost no steps are taken to address this issue.)





	temporary fix

**Author's Note:**

> the three things you must accept at face value (because none are explained) in order to read this fic are as follows: hajime and tooru didn’t grow up friends; all omegas have animal features for no adequately explored reason; and it somehow makes evolutionary sense that omegas would require near-constant sex to remain healthy.
> 
> underage notes: characters 15-18 do a lot of offscreen sex with their peers. the onscreen sex scene happens between iwaizumi and oikawa when they are both a month or two out from 18.

Oikawa is the only omega on the Aoba Josai volleyball team. He's a snowy white wolf, big for an omega, a little taller than Hajime is himself. He runs and jumps and spikes with the best of them: a powerful jump serve hidden in a lithe frame and delicate features, an incredible mind for strategy, and skills in applying his omega-typical people senses so finely honed that nobody batted an eyelid at him being made the setter in their second year. He might have been tapped for captain, too, as he was in junior high, if he hadn't been increasingly busy fucking his way through every unattached person in the grade.

The polite term for it is public attendance: some vestigial leftover instinct which keeps unbonded omegas at their healthiest and most balanced when given regular sexual attention from their community, individually or en masse. Oikawa, for all his poise, is unusually needy: where even the rowdiest of teens are usually satisfied with one or two sessions a week, he seems intent on getting bent over near-daily. It leaves inadequate time for additional duties. So, Hajime—a beta, level-headed and comfortable with responsibility—got the captaincy instead.

Nobody touches Oikawa on the court, of course, let alone during matches; but the changing rooms, bathrooms, and classrooms are fair game, for him and all the other unbonded omegas. Hajime stays back to talk to the coach after practice, and by the time he reaches the clubroom, it's well underway, with half the team piled on top of him, all lanky limbs and teenage carelessness. Hajime sighs.

Hanamaki, comfortable behind Oikawa, has a hand pressed to the back of his head. He grins at Hajime, an invitation; Hajime shakes his head. He acknowledges that the sessions are fine for the team—the mingling hormones have a surprisingly positive effect on their performance and cohesion—but he's not one to partake.

“Come on, captain,” Hanamaki calls out lazily, and yanks Oikawa's head back, away from Watari. There is a wet gasp, a cough; it lands, harsh and too-loud, in Hajime’s ears, and he barely suppresses a flinch.

“It's just not my thing,” says Hajime gruffly, trying to slide his eyes over to his bag quickly, but his gaze catches on Oikawa. His face is flushed; his chin is wet; there's no mess in his hair yet, but Hajime knows from past experience that it's only a matter of time. Oikawa has beautiful hair, deep auburn with a natural curl that sets off strikingly against his snowy ears, and everyone he's ever seen take Oikawa loves to mess it up.

For all that, Oikawa's eyes are warm and brown and vivid. Hajime breaks eye contact as soon as he can and hurries out of the room. As he leaves, the sounds of communal sex start up again, but through he it thinks he can feel the omega's gaze on him. He pauses at the door.

“We have another practice tomorrow,” he calls without turning his head; “someone put a jersey under his knees, for god's sake, he's our setter. Make sure he comes before you lot hit the showers.” He closes the door and hurries out before he has to acknowledge that he's bright red, heart racing.

* * *

Karasuno has an omega on their team, too, a little crow by the name of Hinata. He's tiny, even for an omega, but his little feathery ears are always pricked straight up and he jumps like his creature side is the dominant, staying in the air for what seems like several seconds longer than should be physically possible. His wings stay tightly folded against his back during plays, but flutter wildly and without discernible reason during time-outs and when he's on the sideline, switched out for the libero. Hajime wonders if his bones are hollow, like a bird’s; wonders if he'd be more fragile. Does his team tend to him? How would such a tiny omega stand up under the onslaught of their ace? But he's hickey-free, unlike Oikawa, whose throat is littered with marks from his more demanding teammates, and nobody from their team touches him with the casual carnality with which Oikawa is treated; nobody does more than slap him on the back or ruffle his hair. Hajime sees the way Kageyama, no less angrily confused than he was in junior high, looks at him, though, and thinks: well, maybe there's that.

They're fifteen. It's on the young side for a mating bond, but it can clearly be done. Hajime himself is seventeen, and Oikawa is in his grade, which means—

Hajime stops himself.

* * *

For all that his personality can be grating at times, Oikawa is beautiful; it's impossible not to notice. He's gorgeous in the air, the graceful ascent and the shocking power as he slams down another service ace; the precision with which he sets up, the ball only in his possession for a half-heartbeat before being passed on; but the calculation and strategy and control in that half-heartbeat, so arresting in its grace. His focus during games, ears pricked toward their opponent, his tail swishing from side to side; it wags, sometimes, just a little thump when he scores; it's over quickly enough that Hajime always suspects he's the only one who's noticed it.

Oikawa is engaging, and glorious, and—everyone wants him. They set up a practice match with another school, which they win two sets to one, and afterwards—

Hajime avoids it. He knows, intellectually, that it’s necessary—something about hormones and biological equilibrium—that omegas all seek it out, enjoy it. The way Oikawa is treated during the sessions—well, they’re teens, not famed for gentleness or generosity at the best of times. He knows none of his team would ever—if he was unwilling, this wouldn't have—but anyway, Hajime avoids it. The roughness of adrenaline-addled boys, it's hard to watch.

You don't have any claim over him, Hajime reminds himself firmly. Oikawa lets himself be passed around daily; he needs more than Hajime could provide. Oikawa is not his, nor would he ever want to be, and the way Hajime's heart clenches when Oikawa sets to him, like their hands are joined such that the ball has no choice but to land where Oikawa directs it, it's irrelevant to any situation; that electric zing of harmony as Hajime slams down spike after spike set up by the hands of Oikawa (delicate like the rest of him, callused and wrapped but so clever, and how would his pale fingers look laced through Hajime's—)

Well, Hajime avoids it.

He's almost ready to go home when he realises he left his phone cord in the changing room. He bites his lip, checks his watch; it's been close to an hour since the captain of the opposing team lead Oikawa into the clubroom, followed by the entirety of the two teams, but teenage boys aren't known for their stamina; maybe it's over.

He stalls another five minutes, staring at his shoes and not imagining Oikawa propped up against the wall with all manner of fluids dripping down him. He manages to make the journey from the front gate to the club room drag to twelve minutes. When he finally gets there, the clubroom is silent. It's only when he tromps in in relief that he realises that it isn't empty.

Oikawa's eyes look gold in the dark of the room, his wolf side making the back of his corneas reflective even in low light. He's on his side, a loose and discarded pile of limbs; every inch of him is smeared with come.

“Um,” says Hajime intelligently.

Oikawa's eyes flash; he shifts, rolls over, swipes at his chin. “If you're here to pick up where they left off, I'm going to need a second first.”

“No, um,” mutters Hajime, feeling too warm, dizzy with discomfort; “I—I'm not here for. Um.”

“Of course not,” says Oikawa quietly, and closes his eyes. Hajime tries not to look at him, his gaze darting everywhere but the limp omega in the corner. His phone cord is white, it should stand out against the—there it is.

Hajime scrambles for it, his skin prickling with nervous sweat. The room smells intrusively of spunk.

“You never touch me, captain,” says Oikawa suddenly. Hajime's head whips around, but Oikawa’s eyes are still closed. “Your whole team, everyone is more than happy to join in a few times a week. Some of them go a few times a day. Not you.”

“No,” agrees Hajime, completely at a loss for how to respond.

“Yes, of course,” says Oikawa; “it's just not your thing. That's what you said.”

“You remember what I said?” says Hajime weakly.

“I remember everything about you.”

Oikawa won't look at him. Hajime still doesn't know how to react. He doesn't know what such a statement means, but he's not so naïve as to think it's something to be hopeful about.

“Because I'm the captain of the team, or,” he hedges, then falls silent as Oikawa stirs, clambering gingerly into a sitting position. There's a smile on his face that almost seems rueful.

“Sure,” he agrees, “let's go with that. Because you’re such a strong and memorable leader. Well, captain, I'm sorry you had to see something you find…” he makes as if to examine his nails. “Distasteful.”

“It's not your fault,” Hajime says awkwardly, too brusque. “I'm not bothered by it or anything.” He winces around the lie, so grating it seems to knock against his teeth on the way out. Oikawa definitely picks up on it, from his quiet snort. Hajime wonders glumly if it's worth it for Oikawa to think he's some kind of prudish bigot who hates omegas, for the sake of hiding the real reason he's bothered by the sessions.

Oikawa rolls his shoulders, his neck, stretching out. Hajime, bizarrely, perhaps masochistically, drags his feet; he has his cord, he can go at any time; why doesn't he end it, give Oikawa some privacy at the very least?

“Do you,” he starts saying, and like a trainwreck he feels the rest of the sentence happen, “need any help with anything?” At that, Oikawa finally looks at him, and he immediately wishes he could take back the words, punch himself in the face, anything.

“You don't mean that,” says Oikawa with another tiny smile. “You don't have to stick around to try and be polite, captain.”

“I do mean it,” Hajime insists, instead of taking the out so generously offered to him, because he is a fool with a fool brain and no sense of self-preservation.

Oikawa shakes his head. “Unless you want to personally bathe me, there's nothing you can do, anyway.”

“Oh,” says Hajime. “Well, if it would… help?”

“Honestly? It does. The same way the sex does.” Oikawa shrugs. “You know how it is. The contact, it helps. When it ends suddenly, it helps less. So you have to do more of it.” Oikawa splays his fingers; what-can-you-do. “That's why I spend a half hour on my knees after every practice. Teenagers, not so great at the aftercare thing.”

“Oh,” says Hajime again. If that's why, he wants to say, I can give you all the care you need. It seems absurdly simple. He wants to say: let me do more of it, let me do  _ all _ of it. He can't imagine anyone looking at Oikawa and not wanting to care for him, and is abruptly irritated with his team for doing such a poor job.

But a captain has to look after his team, right? It's practically his job to make sure everyone's needs are met, even if they differ wildly from his own. So he says, recklessly, “then let me help.”

“Come on,” snorts Oikawa.

“I mean it,” says Hajime firmly, moving toward Oikawa. “Let me help. You're a member of my team, and I want you looked after.”

“So responsible,” says Oikawa airily, with a strange underlying bitterness. “Such an upstanding team player. All in the name of sportsmanship?”

_ Sportsmanship. _ “I,” says Hajime. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re too busy to bother with something so troublesome,” Oikawa continues, still gratingly and inauthentically breezy. “I’m used to it, anyhow.”

The idea of Oikawa, exhausted and alone, cleaning himself up at the end of every day is suddenly and acutely heartbreaking; Hajime cannot stand it. It only takes a single mental push, then he is moving on autopilot; catches Oikawa by the forearm with a mumbled, “come on,” drags him toward the door and toward the showers. He tries very hard not to notice how thin Oikawa's wrist is, the strength in the sinewy limb.

Oikawa stumbles at the threshold, but falls into step acquiescently as Hajime reaches back to steady him by the elbow. His eyes have become very wide; Hajime rips his jacket off and throws it at Oikawa in order to avoid having to look at them. The schoolyard is empty on a Saturday, and they complete the short journey to the showers in silence, with Hajime’s heart hammering in his throat.

* * *

The shower water, Hajime knows, comes down like it’s being poured from a watering can by a drunk cat, but with nobody else around, it will stay tolerably warm for a while. Oikawa, ludicrously, turns his nose up at the generic bar soap stocked in the stalls and sends Hajime to the adjacent locker room to get his sports bag, inside of which is stocked half a department store’s worth of towels and washcloths, along with three different flavours of shower gel, multiple things to go in hair, and a collection of skincare products. Hajime scatters it across the bench and ignores as much of it as he can, grabbing a plain green washcloth and flipping the shower on.

Oikawa stumbles into Hajime when the water comes down. Wetness splashes onto Hajime’s clothes; there is no way he could pause to remove them; the whole situation is extraordinarily poorly thought-out, with no exit in sight. At this distance, Oikawa’s scent—buried under the sweat of two dozen horny teenagers as it is—is distractingly prominent. Hajime clutches the washcloth and determinedly does not think about it.

There is a mess of flaking come and drying sweat on Oikawa’s chest; Hajime swallows hard and wipes it away with the gentlest motions he can muster, face hot with the effort it takes to not stare at Oikawa’s nipples, dark with bruises and stiff in the damp air. Some of the marks on him are a few days old, green-tinged and fading, but Oikawa suppresses a flinch when he nudges a fresher one, his wolf ears flicking, and Hajime feels it like a lash to his core.

Come on his belly, too, which flexes under the cloth. The hair there is so fine it is almost red, a scattered chocolaty flush leading down to his soft cock. Omegas are only hairless in porn, but the fineness of his tummy hair, turned dark in the water and laying neatly against his flushed skin, jolts through Hajime regardless.

His wolf tail is mostly clean, the boys clearly not brazen enough to disrespect that barrier of intimacy. Hajime politely avoids it also, focusing instead on cleaning the mess between his legs, on the—the swell of his ass, and—between his cheeks.

His hole is soft. When he touches it, Oikawa hisses. Hajime breathes, shallowly, through his mouth.

“You have to,” says Oikawa, “get it out. Of me.”

It’s impossible. It can’t be done. But outside of heat the semen has nowhere else to go, and Oikawa is an athlete; he can’t afford any gaps in his health.

With every ounce of clinical detachment Hajime can muster, he angles Oikawa’s hips under the spray and reaches around him to feel for his entrance. He has to dig his fingers in. The sensation of it inspires a rush of arousal and revulsion, but he swallows it down. This is for Oikawa’s health. Of course it is.

“Ah,” says Oikawa, too breathy. His head drops onto Hajime’s shoulder. “Haah.”

It must be sore. Wildly, too nervous to control his thoughts, Hajime wonders how many people he had in him, how many knots. From Seijoh, only Matsukawa and Hanamaki are alphas. How many from the other team?

Oikawa shudders, his whole body, as Hajime probes impossibly deeper into the unbearable heat. The number doesn’t matter. Even one other person fucking Oikawa is too much to bear, yet he has borne it since Oikawa reached puberty two years ago, on top of the tender, chaste loneliness that stretches back well into childhood.

“That’s—oh, aah, that’s okay now.” Oikawa’s grip on Hajime’s shoulders tighten just a little as he straightens, shaky and trembling. “I think you got it.”

Hajime’s fingers are slippery. Some of it is Oikawa’s own natural slick, the smell of which he continues to not focus on. He nods brusquely, clutching the washcloth again, and finishes up Oikawa’s hips as fast as he can, then his back. That leaves only his face.

“Close your eyes,” Hajime says, his voice too hoarse for the occasion, too husky. From the corner of his vision, he sees Oikawa blink and comply. A little reassured, he finally drags his gaze up to look Oikawa in the face, the closest he’s ever seen it. The agonising exquisiteness of it is no surprise; the faint scattering of freckles, though, two tiny moles on his cheek and one on his temple—those are new, delightfully unexpected, and Hajime stares at them as though ravenous, committing the details to memory. Oikawa’s cheeks are flushed; his lips are slightly parted in relaxation, bitten red like fruits; a flash of white teeth is visible. Hajime tears his gaze away again; tips Oikawa’s head back a little, under the spray, and washes his perfect face as though he is handling an antique masterpiece.

Distantly, he realises: Oikawa’s secondary ears are flipped back all the way, pressed to his skull. For the first time since Hajime walked back into the clubroom, he feels cold.

His hands still. “Am I hurting you?” The thought is like an icy bolt. Hajime doesn’t dare attempt to smell Oikawa closely enough to read his scent.

“No, no,” says Oikawa, a little breathy. “It’s just… hnng. A little overwhelming.” He shakes his head; water scatters, and with some effort, his wolf ears relax.

“What is?”

“You’re—” Oikawa opens his eyes again. “Very close.”

It makes no sense. Oikawa has had so many others undoubtedly even closer. But Hajime feels it too, the air thick with it. He desperately schools his expression, his stance, back into detached neutrality. Oikawa is so wet and so beautiful and so very, very naked. And his scent…

“The neutral body wash,” Oikawa prompts. Yes, that should help.

The liquid soap is milky white and comes out of an expensive-looking bottle with too many plant names on the label, but produces familiar suds that smell aggressively of nothing. Hajime runs the washcloth over every plane on Oikawa’s body and rinses him til he’s squeaky. For a moment, he thinks,  _ that’s it, _ but before the shameful regret can reach him:

“Shampoo—no, the other—the one with the peaches on the bottle.”

Hajime just washes his own bristly hair with plain water and bar soap; he suspects that Oikawa will not enjoy learning this. The fact remains that  _ hydrating jasmine and peachblossom shampoo with sea salt and argan oil _ is deeply beyond his comprehension. Alphas and omegas do tend to be picky about the scents that go on their bodies, though, and he’s already in this far. Hajime almost fumbles the bottle while reaching for Oikawa’s hair.

He’s too tall. Hajime feels stupid for having to ask, but— “Can you sit?”

Oikawa nods and perches, only a little gingerly, on the bench. Hajime snaps the water shut, takes a moment to steel himself, and digs in.

Hydrating jasmine and peachblossom shampoo turns out to produce far more lather than plain water and bar soap; Hajime suspects he used too much, but the soft cloud of sweet-smelling froth is unexpectedly and bizarrely wonderful. It’s not as harshly chemical as he was expecting, but lightly and genuinely floral, with a bite of salt; Oikawa must really be choosy about his bath products. Specks of foam flake off into the air as Hajime digs in his fingers, trying to cover every part of the scalp without tugging on the hair too much. He scrubs carefully around the base of Oikawa’s secondary ears at a safe distance; rubs gently around where the sensitive scent glands are hidden behind Oikawa’s ears and at the nape of his neck.

“Close your eyes,” he says again, turning the water back on, and is proud of how normal the tone is.

Apparently after the shampoo suds rinse out, Oikawa requires conditioner. The rejuvenating orange and honey conditioner with violet oil is a new mystery: it does not lather, but vanishes completely into Oikawa’s hair, leaving it disturbingly smooth and slick. After that, absurdly, a second flavour of body wash. Hajime rushes through it even as he desperately tries to savour it; the latest soap makes Oikawa smell like clean grass and sunshine. Hajime could live on it.

Oikawa is only slightly shaky as he is rinsed off a final time in water running dangerously lukewarm, and when he reaches out to turn off the spray Hajime thinks  _ that’s really it this time; _ but—

“Can you get me the towel?” Oikawa asks, gripping his own elbows. “The navy one.”

Of course. Hajime paws through the mess of fluffy fabric to find the right towel and pretends that he isn’t feeling relief as he wraps Oikawa up in it; it’s indulgently thick and comically huge, covering Oikawa from neck to knee. His hair drips, and Hajime yanks out another towel of a normal size, struck by inspiration.

“Can you sit again?” he croaks out, trying not to sound too eager. Oikawa stares at him, wide-eyed, for only one terrifying second before finding a patch of dry bench and complying.

Drying Oikawa’s hair is yet another experience in guilty delight; with the cloth between him and Hajime, Hajime feels braver, scrubbing with a restrained enthusiasm. When he pulls back, though, Oikawa’s eyes are closed; the combination of the towel clutched to his shoulders and the wild tangle of his damp hair makes him seem younger, almost vulnerable. The dark blue towel makes him look fairer by contrast; the bruises on his neck stand out. Hajime, for all the heart-stopping liberties he has taken today, cannot bear the spike of longing such an image inspires; he moves around to behind Oikawa to finish towelling.

It seems absurd to leave his hair, normally so well-groomed, in the stringy cloud it is in when Hajime removes the towel. Nervously, he drags his fingers through it til coherent locks start forming.

Oikawa abruptly tilts, then leans, til his weight is against Hajime. His eyes are closed. Water soaks into Hajime’s damp undershirt, his track pants; his heart-rate dutifully triples.

“Um,” he offers.

“You can scent me if you like,” Oikawa breathes. His chin tips, and—that’s his throat, the lines of it long and smooth and stained with bite-marks that Hajime yearns to wipe away. “It’ll help. You know, balance everything out.”

Oikawa has just lathered twice with neutralising soap to return his scent to baseline. Hajime is not an alpha; hormonally speaking, he is of very little benefit to Oikawa. But.

He reaches forward and runs his palm along the pristine arch of Oikawa’s neck, cups his cheek. Oikawa’s eyes flutter; his breathing seems to deepen for a moment; his shoulders shift as though in relaxation. Emboldened by the response, breathless at his own daring, Hajime curls his fingers, feels for the scent gland tucked behind his ear and, incredulously, impossibly, strokes it.

Oikawa purrs, and it does something terrible to Hajime’s insides.

“Touch my ears,” says Oikawa, barely a whisper. Unable to defy him, Hajime does so.

“Nn-no,” says Oikawa, tipping his head a little so the weight is against Hajime’s palm. “My, hah, my other ears.”

That gives him pause. An omega’s creature accents are intensely intimate, private zones; normally, only family and mates would be allowed to touch them. But nothing about anything Hajime has done today is normal. Brazenly, he drags his fingers through Oikawa’s wet hair to pet his secondary ears. They feel ridiculously huge in Hajime’s hands, solid warm wedges of pale fur and velvet-soft skin. The shower and subsequent towelling has sorted the hairs into little wet spikes that crumble and reform under Hajime’s hands.

A shiver runs through Oikawa’s body and his mouth falls slightly open as Hajime digs his fingers in, running them from base to tip; the softness is unbearable. Oikawa tilts his head further back, cheeks pinking, pushing into the strokes. Hajime can hear his breathing quicken. The air changes and he realises, with a frosty jolt, that for the first time today, he has stopped panicking for long enough to start getting hard.

He yanks his hands back; the absence of soft, warm hair is almost a physical pain. Oikawa doesn’t seem to notice for a long second, still leaning into Hajime, panting softly and shifting under the towel. Hajime pushes down his arousal with horrified determination. It feels doubly forbidden to derive pleasure from this; it feels like a violation. To hold Oikawa between his hands and have him flushed and squirming—it’s unbearable. Oikawa would hate him.

“I—” Hajime’s voice cracks, and he swallows with some effort around the dryness in his throat. “I should. Get going. If that’s enough.” His hands are stiff at his sides, but he doesn’t dare to step back, not with so much of Oikawa’s weight against him.

When Oikawa opens his eyes, they’re dark with pupil and slightly glazed; it takes several blinks for him to focus, for his breathing to slow. The towel had slipped down to expose his shoulders, and he hitches it back into place now with shaky hands. When he leans off Hajime, he is swaying only a little.

“I mean,” Hajime plows on, “if you’re okay now.”

“Yeah,” says Oikawa, after an uncomfortable pause during which Hajime vividly considers chemically castrating himself. He sounds oddly resigned. “Thank you. Captain.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hajime mumbles.

Oikawa is looking at him too much, too intently. Hajime throws a third (a  _ third! _ ) fluffy towel over his head before he can do something terrible, like lean down across the meagre distance and kiss him.

“See you on Monday,” he says, a little too loud, backing out of the changerooms. He is wet from chest to ankle and there is dried soap on his arms that he has not yet rinsed off. 

From behind him, he hears a quiet, “see you.”

* * *

Hajime does indeed see Oikawa on Monday.

Perhaps still tired from the exploits of the weekend, only two boys follow Oikawa into the clubroom after practice. It is no task at all to put off leaving for the fifteen minutes they require to finish.

Oikawa is picking at a spatter of come in his hair when Hajime walks in. His shirt has been rucked up, pushed to his armpits to expose his torso, and Hajime can see that the marks from Saturday have begun to fade. He looks up at the noise, nonchalant until he registers that it’s Hajime, upon which he freezes, eyes wide and staring at him again with that expression that Hajime refuses to interpret as incredulity.

“Hey, so,” Hajime starts.

And so it happens again.

* * *

And keeps happening.

Hajime learns the exact order that the bath products in Oikawa’s bottomless sports-cross-cosmetics bag need to be used in for optimum satisfaction. He cleans Oikawa; he applies soap, shampoo, conditioner, and soap again. He towels Oikawa off til he’s rumple-haired and then finger-combs him back into the realm of presentability. He drags his thumbs over the scent glands on Oikawa’s temples and his cheeks; digs his fingers into the glands behind his primary ears, clumsily mingling their scents. He pets Oikawa’s soft, warm, impossible wolf ears. Somehow, he does not tighten his grip and bring Oikawa’s face up to his mouth; he does not clutch the lithe body as though intent on holding the whole of Oikawa in his two hands; he does not blurt out any variation upon the phrase  _ Oikawa, I’ve been in love with you for years; I’ve loved you since before I could comprehend the shape of the word; let me wash your hair and feed you milk buns for the rest of our lives. _ At the end of every day, he somehow opens his hands and releases Oikawa back into the world.

Every moment feels stolen, illicit—something too precious to possibly keep. He forgets what calm feels like. His hands touch every inch of Oikawa’s body and Oikawa  _ allows _ him, even as he thinks, certain of it,  _ This can’t possibly be allowed. _

Every so often, it occurs to him to question what he’s doing, but then Oikawa will turn his face into Hajime’s ball-roughened palm as though it’s the softest cloth, and Hajime—weak, selfish Hajime—pushes his rationality further away, and continues.

* * *

He masturbates a  _ lot. _

* * *

“Wow, captain,” remarks Hanamaki as Hajime slams down another spike, his team dutifully supplying a chorus of  _ nice kill. _ “You’re extra gruff and captainly today. What’s been going on? Nice kill!” he adds, calling to Matsukawa as he follows Hajime’s suit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is just what it looks like when someone actually  _ focuses _ during practice,” snaps Hajime, but Hanamaki is not wrong: despite the absurdity of his recent extra-extra-curriculars, Hajime has never felt more on top of his game; his sleep is solid as a rock and his appetite, which, as typical of a teenage boy, was nothing to sneeze at before, is more dependable than ever. In the last fortnight, he’d broken his personal record for the deadlift and the mile; it was only a matter of time before it became obvious in his volleyball performance, too.

“I’m with Makki,” says Matsukawa lazily. “You’re even more upstanding than usual. Did you get a girlfriend?”

This hypothesis is so close and yet so unbearably far from the truth that Hajime can’t suppress a snort.

“Nah, we would know if he got a girlfriend, he’d be covered in bonding marks,” pipes up Motomu from edge of the court.

“You’re right, he’d have dropped out of school to plan the wedding.”

“What about me are you insulting, exactly?” Hajime demands.

“You’re—”

“Boring,” drawls Hanamaki.

“Loyal,” Yahaba suggests, ever diplomatic.

“You’ve used the same brand of pencil since junior high.”

“What does that have to do with anything,” says Hajime, even though it’s actually since elementary school.

“You’re the type to  _ commit, _ that’s all,” Matsukawa says. “It can’t be a regular fling that’s doing this. But seriously, have you discovered a new steroid or something?” He pokes Hajime’s bicep. Hajime uncrosses his arms, tries to hold them as un-flexed as possible. “These are starting develop their own gravitational field.”

“It does feel like you’ve been improving very fast,” remarks Kindaichi, politely.

“Oikawa too!” Watari chimes in. “Passing to him feels extra good lately.”

“Yeah, I thought his tosses were insane before, but he’s making every other setter I’ve had look like they were high,” says Heisuke.

“Maybe  _ he _ got a girlfriend.”

“I bet it’s a sexy college alpha! Face like that, he could score an older woman.”

“Fuck off, Kaneo, you were there yesterday! As if he’d settle for your tiny dick if he had a better option!”

“Your mum didn’t have any complaints—”

“All right!” Hajime says, loudly. “We aren’t here to gossip! Anyone who isn’t doing their drills in the next three seconds is running suicides for the rest of practice. One, two—”

* * *

The thing is, Oikawa  _ could _ score an older woman. Or the hottest alpha in school. Or perhaps a wealthy, doting businessman. Really, anyone he wants. He could have a harem of alphas taking care of his every need; he practically does already. Or perhaps he’ll stay single, too busy leading the Japanese national men’s volleyball team to victory after resounding victory to settle down, too busy throwing his body at the pursuit of advancement to surrender it to pregnancy. He’ll be brilliant and demanding forever, wringing his team dry on and off the court.

But for now, he still follows Hajime into the showers every day, wide-eyed, even though it’s the fucking weirdest thing either of them have probably ever done, and lowers his head for washing, and leans on Hajime, and rubs his cheeks on Hajime’s hands as if he wants to wear their shared scent like a crown.

* * *

“Oi. What are you still doing here?”

Oikawa, Hajime has discovered with less surprise than perhaps was fair, has bad habits; Hajime has become intimately acquainted with a great many over the course of the last few weeks. He’s a worryingly picky eater for an athlete; he’s bossy; he gives absurd nicknames that stick no matter how many times Hajime says, perplexed, to not call him _Iwa-chan;_ he kicks at the chair in front of him in class; and sometimes, late at night, he will sneak into the gym to train. Alone. Without advisement from the coach. Or anyone to help him if he overworks or injures himself. Which, based on the amount of time he spends drilling the same moves, is almost a mathematical certainty.

“Cheer up, Iwa-chan! I’m almost done!” He’s panting, sheened with sweat; his limbs are shaking. The smell of him is sour with exhaustion. Hajime wants to wring his neck for being a self-destructive asshole, and also to lick his whole body clean and tuck him into bed and tenderly scent mark him until he passes out.

“You were done an hour ago, it looks like,” Hajime growls, his skin prickling with the need to contain Oikawa, keep him safe.

“One more.”

_ "No _ more,” Hajime insists, catching him by the forearm. “I already washed you once today,” and it was just as fucking weird and achingly wonderful as it always is, “you aren’t getting any more help. Sit down before you fall down.”

Oikawa deigns to accept a towel around his neck, and at the sight of Hajime’s face, sulkily starts doing his cool-down stretches. When he reaches for his bag, his stomach growls, very prominently. 

“Haven’t you eaten?!” Hajime knows he hasn’t, and this is, on an instinctive level, unacceptable. “You idiot, it’s already dark outside! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“The cafeteria didn’t have milk bread at lunch,” says Oikawa as though that is in any way reasonable or relevant. “Iwa-chan should buy me some.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a sure thing,” Hajime grouches on principle, though he had started mentally considering which conbini is closest and likely to still have sweet buns in stock as soon as Oikawa started speaking. “You need to eat something else, too.”

“Then take me to dinner.”

“What? Why would I do that.”

“Because you have to take care of this poor delicate omega,” sighs Oikawa, limpeting onto his arm and sending a wave to heat to Hajime’s face. “I am too smart and beautiful to provide for myself.”

“That’s not even how it worked before we had modern society,” Hajime points out, pushing away the part of his lizard hindbrain that clamours in agreement, desperate to provide for Oikawa, shower him with resources and safety til he smells of nothing but contentment.

“Then, to reward my many virtues and kindnesses?”

“You made Yahaba cry today.”

“But from those tears will spring improvement!”

“I’m not buying you dinner.”

A tug on his arm. “But  _ Iwa-chan— _ ”

“Keep that up and I’ll leave,” Hajime snaps. There’s no bite and no true intent behind those words—Hajime could walk away right now just as well as he could spontaneously grow a third spiking arm—but Oikawa stills, regardless. Hajime swallows.

The boundaries of their strange, tenuous relationship are so poorly defined. Hajime doesn’t even know when they started spending time together outside of practice and their weird little bathing sessions. Despite everything in him recognising Oikawa as his due north, there have been no promises between them, spoken or otherwise. There is not even a routine yet established for when they are both clothed.

Oikawa drops his arm and steps away, ears flat, looking at the ground. Hajime grabs his hand, praying his own isn’t too sweaty, and barges toward the door.

“Come on,” he mumbles, “I know a good family restaurant, they’ll still be open.” Whatever he can’t be to Oikawa, at least he can offer a little firm footing. He doesn’t want Oikawa to ever make that face because of him.

Hajime buys Oikawa three things off the menu. When Oikawa digs in, his tail starts wagging, and Hajime feels almost lightheaded with happiness.

* * *

r/relationships

_ Posted by u/godzillalover98 1 day ago _

**is it normal to bathe your omega teammate after public attendance? like pltaonically?**

hey so i (17/b) have had a crush on one of my classmates (17/o) for ages, but there’s no way he likes me back so i haven’t said anything. recently though i’ve started helping him bathe after public attendance, and im wondering if it’s weird? he’s one of the neediest omegas in the school and gets attended almost every day, but he’s super beautiful/brilliant/popular etc, so loads of alphas are after him [...]

tl;dr my crush (17/o) and i (17/b) aren’t bonded or dating but i help him bathe after public attendance every day, he asks me to scent mark him including on his secondary ears, it’s really improving both our athletic performances but i might go crazy soon… is this normal/okay or should i pull out?? please hlp!

comments | sort by: best (suggested)

diretora - posted 1 day ago  
Uh… he lets you touch his secondary ears??! Dude… my husband didn’t even let me touch his ears til we’d been dating for a year… I’d dtr soon before one of you gets hurt, this is definitely not normal.

ue2837 - posted 15 hours ago  
I usually hesitate to jump to this conclusion, but are you sure he doesn’t like you back? Has he said he’s not attracted to betas or something? I’m bringing it up because as an omega, I’ve always found that i need more attendance when I’ve got a crush, but I would never have let someone other than my crush scent me…

VCAF - posted 14 hours ago  
same!! I didn’t really like general attendance most of my life, then when i fell in love for the first time my hormones went crazy and i ended up needing a lot! but at the same time i hated carrying other people’s scents way more than usual, so if he’s letting you scent mark him, that definitely means something. I’ve got lots of omega friends and let me tell you, doing group sex every single day is a LOT, even for a teenager.

evergreen - posted 2 hours ago  
bro. define. the. relationship.

* * *

Hajime had met Tooru in junior high. There they both were at volleyball sign-ups, the first day, and Hajime had seen him at the other end of the line and thought:  _ wow, he’s pretty. _ And then he had seen the fluffy white ears, the wagging tail, and thought:  _ what’s an omega doing on a volleyball court? _ because the omegas in his picture books growing up didn’t play sports; they were homemakers, and socialites, and delicate, sensitive artists.

And then he had seen Oikawa  _ move. _

By the end of the day, Hajime had stars in his eyes; he buzzed from head to toe; he knew he would marry Oikawa one day. But every attempt he made to talk to Oikawa had been stymied by his adoring crowd, his charisma overflowing even as an undergrown and spotty preteen, and by the end of the week, Hajime had given up. He stood back and watched as Oikawa shot through to the regulars, then to setter, then to captain, then to a sulking, silent benchwarmer at the tail end of third year when Kageyama stumbled onto the team. He didn’t know what happened. He could only gamely continue to play as well as he could, trying to follow after Oikawa.

The only exchange of any meaning they had in those three years had been toward the end, when Oikawa asked him:  _ where are you going to play in high school, Iwaizumi-kun? _ And Hajime, too shocked to question it, had reflexively answered with the truth: he was going to Aoba Josai.

And there, again, was Oikawa.

Hajime had been stupid enough, for a few months, to allow a little spark of hope to flare up in his chest; then Oikawa missed a week of school in the middle of semester and came back smelling like heaven in a grassy field, like every wet dream Hajime had ever had mixed together, like fucking birdsong and happily-ever-after. That day, an alpha in their class had tucked her hair behind her ears and shyly asked him if he needed any attendance; amidst hoots and hollers, Oikawa had magnanimously accepted; and Hajime realised that he had missed his chance.

Hajime had shed most of his traditional conceptions of omegas as he aged and read about omegas running ruthless tech companies, and dominating courtrooms, and pitching shutouts. But in games ruled more by pure physicality, it’s still rare to find omegas thriving; Japan’s national women’s volleyball team has just two omegas in reserve, both bonded, and the men’s team has had none in the last eight years. But they’re going to take Oikawa. They’re going to  _ beg _ for him, because Oikawa works harder than anyone else Hajime knows; because he plays like the ball is a part of him, like the court is a part of him; because he knows everything a player needs to be lifted up or brought to heel with a glance. Because he jumps untethered, like the sky could not defy him.

* * *

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” says Oikawa, “follow me. Just a little bit off the road, I promise.”

“I have no good feelings about this,” announces Hajime, but the field along the road is flat and open, so he obligingly steps after Oikawa. For all that the weather is turning warm, it still falls dark soon after dinner time, and walking home together after dusk has become something of a habit.

It isn’t many yards from the street that Oikawa stops and tilts his face to the sky. When Hajime follows suit, bemused, he realises that with the streetlights behind them, the half moon and the stars are breathtakingly bright. There are more than he can usually see, and even as he stares up, more seem to appear.

“I think that’s Orion’s belt,” says Oikawa, motioning vaguely up. Iwaizumi looks, but they all just look like white dots to him. “Orion was like… just a guy. I think he got put up there for being good at hunting.”

“What?”

“You know.” Oikawa spins, still staring up at the lights. “All the constellations have stories. I only remember a few. They’re mostly silly. I mean, Canis Major is just a really good dog.” He points again. Hajime is entirely unsure if he can actually see the constellations or if he’s just gesturing at random.

“And that one is Cassiopeia. She got banished to the sky,” says Oikawa, turning to Hajime in the darkness, “for being too beautiful.”

“Huh. That’s kind of a weird thing to get banished for.”

“Myths are weird.” Oikawa is gazing at him again, just visible under the moonlight. His expression is unfamiliar to Hajime, inscrutable, though he has seen it in Oikawa’s face before. It’s strangely sad. The lights in his eyes are a brighter constellation than anything above their heads. Hajime imagines Oikawa broken into stardust and ever-burning fire and scattered across the night sky. Punished for being too beautiful. He would outshine Cassiopeia, if he were sent up there. He would outshine the moon.

The realisation comes to Hajime, standing there in the dark as Oikawa mumbles half-remembered astrology trivia, that Oikawa’s scent is familiar to him; the shape of his gestures are familiar to him. In the span of six weeks, Oikawa Tooru has—incredulously, impossibly—become his  _ friend, _ and Hajime is no less gone for him. The hollow yearning in him has not decreased; the ugly, protective jealousy still flares up every time he sees a mark on Oikawa that he did not leave; the sex dreams have really only gotten more unmanageable; but when they greet each other at homeroom, and he lends Oikawa a pencil, and Oikawa distracts him all lunch with inane chatter—he  _ likes _ it. Somehow, their time together is more enjoyable than it is agonising.

It is a precious, startling sensation, to be able to enjoy his time with Oikawa for what it is, instead of only feeling the bitter, pointed absence of what it could be.

Hajime turns his face back up to the stars, bright memories of long-extinguished fires.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

* * *

In retrospect, something had to give.

* * *

Hajime should have known it was going too well. It’s nowhere near the realm of okay, but it’s been working. Sure, Hajime still feels like dying every time someone else follows Oikawa into the clubroom, and sure, sometimes Oikawa looks at him like he’s a fire burning on the ashes of cherished keepsakes, and  _ sure, _ the amount of free time Hajime sacrifices to jerking off is truly becoming intrusive, but it’s been  _ working. _

“Iwa-chan, I’m not feeling well,” says Oikawa after last period, just before practice starts; “take me home.”

Hajime’s heart drops. Oikawa wants to skip practice?  _ Oikawa? _

“What’s wrong? Should we go to the nurse’s office?” Now that it’s been mentioned, Oikawa has looked kind of flushed all day. And a little lethargic. What if he’s sick? What if he has a fever?

“No, hmm, I think I really want to be in my own room… and school’s over, so, can you just take me home?”

Hajime is the captain; he should send someone else to do it. He says, “let me just tell the coach.”

Maybe it’s confirmation bias, but in the seven minutes it takes to inform the coach of his temporary departure, Oikawa’s condition seems to worsen; he definitely looks feverish now, ears flat, pink-faced and slouching as if he’s tired. Hajime wants, abruptly and desperately, to pile him under blankets and curl up around him and snarl at anyone who approaches.

Hajime is alert the whole trip, glancing at Oikawa every few paces to make sure he isn’t about to drop. He’s concerningly quiet and droopy-tailed, as if walking takes more focus than usual, but he stays upright and matches Hajime’s pace. Hajime wonders what it could be. Hopefully he just ate something mildly off; Oikawa seems like the type to want to ride out diarrhea in the privacy of his own home.

They make it to Oikawa’s house, which is empty; his parents must both work. The idea of depositing him on the doorstep and leaving is abhorrent to Hajime—he needs very badly to see Oikawa safely tucked into bed with water and electrolytes within easy reach—and seems rude besides, so Hajime toes off his shoes with a murmured  _ excuse me _ and follows Oikawa to his bedroom. The Oikawa residence is clean but cluttered, dripping with houseplants, and smells faintly of something very pleasant. There’s some kind of tiny potted tree with comically oversized leaves in Oikawa’s room; it’s horribly endearing. Oikawa deposits his schoolbag on his desk chair.

Hajime opens his mouth to say, Do you need me to get you some water, but isn’t able to get through more than half a syllable before he feels a warm weight thump into him and an amazing smell overtakes his senses. It’s the same one he caught a hint of on the walk home, the same as what’s in this room; a concentrated version of a scent that has, he realises, become almost as familiar to him as his own.

It’s Oikawa.

His face is flushed; his eyes are shining; he smells so good Hajime wants to live in it. Most of his weight is against Hajime; he can feel the warmth coming off of him.

“Iwa-chan,” he breathes, and without conscious thought Hajime catches him, wraps his arms around his torso to keep him upright. His head tips forward the tiniest distance, his nose brushes against Oikawa’s cheek, and the sensation of cloth between them is suddenly nauseating; Oikawa’s skin smells and feels like sunshine; he needs more of it. His jacket is shifting, and, oh, it’s because Hajime is pulling it from him, urgent with desire. Under the jacket, there are buttons, awful points of tension that he cannot undo, his hands too heavy, his fingers clumsy as though their polarity has been scrambled; with a growl that emerges from somewhere undiscovered in his body, his fists clench and yank. There’s a scattering noise; the buttons yield, and the shirt with them.

When his palm finally lands on Oikawa’s waist, it’s like a bolt of heat; like collapsing into a scalding bath; he cannot understand how he has lived so many years without this sensation. He lowers his face, searching blindly for Oikawa’s neck, where the mouthwatering scent is strongest, gathered as though in wait for his mouth.

Oikawa whimpers, and the sound cuts through the fog in Hajime’s head, and he realises that he is rock hard, gripping Oikawa’s naked torso and about to bite down, with his actual physical teeth, on his collarbone.

To release Oikawa feels like he is pulling his hands from their sockets; he pushes away with great effort, stumbles and lands on his rear, his schoolbag sliding from his shoulder. His erection refuses to be hidden; the scant meter of air between them is inadequate. Oikawa falls with him, his school shirt buttonless and scrunched to reveal the smooth pale planes of his chest and stomach. He’s gazing at Hajime with eyes barely focused, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“What the fuck, Oikawa,” Hajime pants, unable to make sense of the situation. “What—how—”

“Iwa-chan, please,” whines Oikawa, tipping forward til he’s on his hands and knees, crawling into Hajime’s personal space.

Hajime feels like his mind is being assaulted, barely able to get its footing between blows. “Are you. Oikawa—are you in  _ heat? _ ”

Oikawa crashes into him with a broken noise, one hand grasping at Hajime’s shirt.

_ "How can you be in heat?" _ It’s absurd. It’s impossible. Hormonal birth control is subsidised for all alphas and omegas in public schools so they don’t have to miss class; Oikawa should have been taking suppressants since puberty. “Oikawa! What happened?”

“Must’ve forgot my med,” Oikawa gasps, leaning his face into the crook of Hajime’s neck. “Busy with—practice. Haah, please—Iwa-chan,  _ please— _ ”

“You moron! You—put yourself in danger like this—“ Hajime is having a panic attack, he’s sure of it. How can it have come on so fast? “Oikawa—come on, stay with me—do you have anyone who can take your heat? Who do I call? When do your parents come home?”

“Nobody—nobody else, please, Iwa-chan—you. Just you.” Oikawa is rubbing his face against Hajime’s neck, his ears brushing against Hajime’s chin, mingling their scents; the resulting aroma makes Hajime’s mouth water and his limbs feel weak. “Please, Iwa-chan, it hurts… I need—”

It would be so easy to lean forward and give him what he wants. It would be a mercy. Arousal is a molten pit in Hajime’s stomach; he wants, so desperately, so selfishly, to give in. To strip Oikawa out of the remainder of his uniform and bite down his neck, his torso; to feel the soft friction of his treasure trail and take Oikawa’s cock into his mouth; to feel for where he’s hottest, probably wet and open by now, and just— _ have _ it.

“Iwa-chan.” Oikawa is still nuzzling into him, so sweet and gentle and desperate. “I’m so, hahh, so empty—I need you—I want you so bad.”

Hajime drops his head onto Oikawa’s shoulder in defeat. “Oikawa—come on, Oikawa, no you don’t.”

Oikawa stills. “What?”

“You don’t want me,” Hajime says desperately, tugging Oikawa’s shirt back over his shoulders. Oikawa’s body seems charged with a new gravity; it’s almost impossible to resist it. “You want—well, your hormones might latch onto whoever’s closest, but it’s an alpha you really need, right?” A knot. Hajime’s hands are shaking. Oikawa’s shirt will not close because—because he’d ripped the buttons, like some kind of  _ savage. _ Hajime’s arousal is swiftly being eaten by horror and regret: he’d laid hands on Oikawa when he was compromised, at his most vulnerable. He’d almost—he’d almost—

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, chest tight. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go.”

“Iwa-chan,” says Oikawa, his voice wobbling; it feels like a physical blow, but Hajime would rather be hated now than have Oikawa regret it later. “Please, don’t leave. It  _ hurts. _ Please help me.”

“I can’t do this, Oikawa,” Hajime says in a rush, scrambling away and climbing to his feet, staggering for the door. He’ll call someone from outside. The distance rakes at him, but with every step his head is a little clearer.  _ I can’t help you. You don’t want me to. _

From behind him, Oikawa chokes out, “ _ why do you hate me so much? _ ” and then bursts into tears.

Hajime spins around.

Oikawa is still kneeling; his shirt is still hanging open. He looks smaller than should be possible; he looks pitiful, his face wet and his tail tucked in. Hajime thinks that if there is a hell, he’s definitely headed there, for making Oikawa look like that.

“Oikawa,” he says, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You think I’m disgusting,” Oikawa sobs, “and I like you so, so much but you  _ hate _ me, and you’ve been p-putting up with me for, for weeks, and I don’t understand why you don’t just kick me off the team, if I’m such a burden, instead of, instead of  _ touching _ me all the time, and getting my stupid hopes up—”

Hajime finds himself on his knees in front of Oikawa with no memory of the journey. He seems to be hearing the words without understanding them; there is no context to fit them into.

“—and you smell so good,” Oikawa is continuing, getting slowly louder, “ _ all the time. _ Since  _ junior high. _ You smell like, like you’d keep me safe, and you do but then you don’t! You always seem happy to see me, and you say, you say yes to everything I ask and you feed me and you  _ touch _ me, every single day, but you won’t kiss me, you won’t even kiss me  _ now. _ ”

“Oikawa,” says Hajime, moving closer. Oikawa is swiftly working himself toward hysteria.

“And I’m  _ sorry _ that I’m so revolting and I take up so much of your time, and you’ve been laughing at me for weeks, but you  _ offered, _ and you got your scent on me with your stupid gentle hands and you won’t even take  _ responsibility— _ ”

Oikawa tastes like salty tears and angry teeth and wide open fields. He tastes heat-sweet and burning hot, lips impossibly soft under Hajime’s, yielding. When Hajime moves, Oikawa moves with him. Hajime’s heartbeat is like thunder in his ears.

“Oikawa,” says Hajime, drawing back a breath away from Oikawa’s mouth. “I don’t hate you.”

Oikawa is staring at him, eyes red and face wet.

“You never tend to me,” he hiccups. “Even when the whole team does.”

“I can’t share you,” says Hajime. “I can’t bear to have you only a little.”

“You’re always so. Restrained. Like you don’t want to be touching me.”

“I don’t want to overstep. I didn’t think—shit, Oikawa, you’re the prettiest omega in school. How could you want anything to do with me?”

“I literally threw myself at you,” says Oikawa, voice breaking again, “and you wouldn’t fuck me.”

“Because you’re in  _ heat, _ ” Hajime cries, face burning. “You can’t even—you’re, like, compromised right now! I can’t just take advantage!”

“Oh, come on, Iwa-chan,” snaps Oikawa, suddenly sounding—of all things— _ cross. _ “Don’t underestimate me. This isn’t porn, I’m not  _ helpless. _ ”

“You,” Hajime starts, then Oikawa’s words catch up with him. “What? But earlier?”

Oikawa cuts his gaze away, shoulders rising defensively. “Well, I thought it was worth a try.”

“You thought it was worth a—you. Were you  _ acting? _ ” Hajime’s head spins. Only Oikawa. “Did you go off your meds on  _ purpose? _ Wait, are you even in heat?”

“Nearly! I… I figured I’d need the pheromones.”

“You—! Oikawa! What the fuck!”

“I was going crazy!” Oikawa fires back, voice wobbly again. “I tried dropping hints, but you were like a stone! Scenting me every day and never even—I asked you to touch my secondary ears and everything and you still—I was  _ desperate! _ ”

“You could have  _ said _ something!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have offered to  _ wash semen out of your ass, _ that’s definitely the best way to communicate my intentions!”

“You—!” Hajime bites his lip. He has no good response to that. They are both disasters.

There’s a pause, then Oikawa says, in a small voice, “tell me I’m pretty again.”

A surge of incredulous fondness overtakes Hajime, and he finally gives in to his impulse and surges forward to scoop Oikawa up in his arms. He’s still so warm. He smells like every good thing in the world, and Hajime never wants to let him go.

“Oikawa,” Hajime murmurs, “you are a brat, and an idiot, and a demanding weirdo—”

“ _ What _ ,” Oikawa shrieks, wide-eyed and squirming.

“—and you’re the greatest athlete I’ve ever met,” Hajime continues, and Oikawa stills in his hold. “You work harder than anyone else alive. You’re brilliant. I could stand back and watch you shine for a hundred years. I’ve loved you,” he says in a rush, “since I saw you across the volleyball court for the first time, in junior high. You’re so, so beautiful.”

Oikawa is shaking, clutching at Hajime’s shoulders. Tears have started to well up in his eyes again, and he ducks his head to hide them.

“Well,” he mumbles, “you’re not so bad yourself.”

Hajime leans forward.

Kissing Oikawa feels like the moment of impact at the very apex of a spike, dragged out into long gossamer-thin seconds. It feels like sprinting up a hill against the wind, grass whipping at his legs. It feels like the very first time Hajime saw Oikawa on the court, like stars are falling over their heads like rain. His head is dizzy; his whole body feels warm; he wants to drink Oikawa down like he’s a stream in the desert.

Oikawa’s hands are sliding down his chest and Hajime feels himself giving over to instinct again, the thin fabric of his shirt that’s preventing Oikawa from touching his skin directly an utter affront. Oikawa reaches down to untuck his shirt, then there is a sudden jerk, and for the second time that day Hajime hears the sound of flying buttons.

“What the fuck,” he says, jolting back.

“Well, you got to do it,” Oikawa pants. His lips are already so red, shiny with spit; it’s impossible to look away from them. Hajime did that to him, this time. A shirt suddenly seems an inconsequential price to pay.

When Oikawa dives back in, he’s kneeling up; his face is above Hajime’s, one hand on Hajime’s jaw to angle it and the other frantically pushing his shirt off his shoulders. Hajime pulls away from where he’s grasping clumsily at Oikawa’s smooth waist for the second necessary to shuck it entirely. The grip fall to his shoulder, then his upper arm, and Oikawa moans into Hajime’s mouth. Hajime huffs out a laugh when he realises that Oikawa is squeezing his bicep.

“It’s not my fault,” Oikawa mumbles, “that you keep all your brains in your biceps, Iwa-chan.”

For that, Hajime tilts his head and bites Oikawa on the side of his neck. Oikawa gasps, his body jerking and falling further forward into Hajime’s. He spends long, glorious seconds delighting himself with the smooth lines of Oikawa’s throat, devouring the scent there. His fingers sweep through hair, the soft dryness novel, to find Oikawa’s secondary ears; when he strokes them, Oikawa produces a bitten-off moan that floods through his body like wildfire.

His brain is slowly catching up with his body as he realises that he  _ has _ this, that Oikawa is giving him this; every fantasy he’s ever carefully not had about Oikawa is spilling over in his mind, overwhelming and yet paltry compared to the real weight of Oikawa against him, the smell of his arousal.

He wants to kiss Oikawa til he’s shaking, kiss him all over til he’s dripping and open and ready. He wants to apply his mouth, lick into Oikawa’s hole; it would be yet untouched, clean for him; he could make it filthy. He wants to press Oikawa down; he wants to hold Oikawa up; he wants to be more gentle than anyone who’s ever fucked Oikawa without warmth, so careful that Oikawa forgets he was ever treated roughly; he wants to bite down on every inch of skin and fuck him til he pushes past moaning to screaming, then to dizzy, gasping silence.

With much fumbling, the rest of their clothes come off; somehow, they are still on the ground, despite the bed not two meters away. It seems unbearable to release Oikawa’s mouth for long enough to make that insurmountable journey.

“Iwa-chan, do you want my first time to be on the floorboards, you monster?”

“This is not your first time,” Hajime mumbles, preoccupied by Oikawa’s collarbones.

“You know what I mean—” and Hajime does— “my first time with someone who counts.”

With a growl, Hajime loops his arms under Oikawa’s buttocks and hefts; Oikawa shrieks, clutching one hand on Hajime’s shoulder and one (much more problematically) in his hair; Hajime carries Oikawa the three paces to the bed and dumps him, flushed and wide-eyed, on the sheets.

Being on top of Oikawa is another experience again, just as delightful as everything else; Hajime’s mouth discovers the wonderful new frontiers of Oikawa’s chest, his nipples, his tummy with its precious scattering of fine hairs—shapes that are familiar to Hajime only in the context of tight-fisted repression, now free to be explored. His cock, even more beautiful erect that it is soft, perfectly flushed and already wet at the tip, and—Oikawa crooks his knee, and—

Hajime feels unworthy to touch him there, yet incapable of refraining; there’s wetness on the curve of his ass, streaked down his pale inner thighs, leading Hajime to his hole. When he brushes against it, Oikawa’s breath hitches, and his legs fall wider apart. The motion is so wildly erotic Hajime feels dizzy for a moment.

“Can I,” he breathes, and then, “ouch,” as Oikawa smacks into the side of his head with his knee.

“Are you going to knot me with your eyes?” he whines, pitchy and squirming. “Get on with it!”

Hajime can’t knot Oikawa at all; to make up for it, he obligingly lowers his head and swallows Oikawa’s cock. It won’t all fit in his mouth, but the weight of it is heady, the taste addictive; Oikawa’s hips hitch and Hajime hears a breathy moan.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Oikawa pants; “Iwa-chan. Your fingers, please, anything—I’m so—haah,” he turns his head as if to hide his face in the sheets, “so  _ empty. _ ”

Hajime obliges, still suckling on Oikawa’s cock, closing his eyes hard at the sensation as he offers a single finger, the unbearable slickness, the scalding heat, the  _ smell— _

He pumps, nervously, reverently, with one digit for a few moments, then, as Oikawa continues to whine, adds a second and a third. Oikawa is absurdly, blindingly ready; wet and soft and warm and  _ open _ .

“More,” Oikawa gasps. Wildly, Hajime imagines adding a fourth finger; he imagines tucking in his thumb; he almost chokes on Oikawa’s dick at the thought. For now, he speeds up with three fingers, digging deeper than he’s ever been allowed before. If he angles up, there should be a spot right—there—

Oikawa cries out, back arching; his hips jerk, and a flood of warmth hits the roof of Hajime’s throat. He coughs, more out of surprise than anything, and leans back, still working at Oikawa’s prostate; come dribbles onto Oikawa’s belly as he spasms, flexing around Hajime’s fingers.

“That’s—not—fair— _ Iwa-chan _ ,” he moans.

“Hey, can I come on you,” Hajime mumbles, reaching for his own neglected erection.

“Don’t you  _ dare, _ ” Oikawa yelps, utilising his knee again. “If you don’t put that in me I’m breaking up with you, Iwa-chan, don’t you fucking  _ dare _ waste it.”

“All right, all right,” says Hajime, but Oikawa is scrambling up onto shaky elbows after only one or two false starts, breathing hard. He pushes at Hajime’s shoulder until he leans back, then proceeds to climb into his lap.

“I have to do everything myself,” he grumbles, grinding down onto Hajime, who braces his hands on Oikawa’s hips and bites his lip hard to stop himself from coming instantly. The heat and wetness had felt like a revelation on his hand; applied to his dick, it feels like it’s going to be the end of him.

Helpless to resist, his hands find Oikawa’s tail, damp with slick on the underside; he trembles as Hajime shakily runs his hands up, against the grain of the fur, then digs his fingers in right at the base where it where fur meets spine. At that, Hajime feels Oikawa give a full-body shudder, arching his back reflexively with a whimper. Hajime’s dick slides along the groove of his ass as he moves, swiftly tipping toward too much.

It takes a little maneuvering to line them up, but then Oikawa is sinking down with a gasp, his mouth falling open as he leans back, and he’s impossibly hot and tight and perfect. It briefly occurs to Hajime to wonder if he should be insecure about his size—Oikawa has fucked so many people, so many alphas—but as Oikawa bottoms out he keens, his chest heaving and his eyes practically rolling in his head, and Hajime puts it out of his mind.

There’s a moment of adjustment; keeping still feels as impossible a task as flying, but Hajime manages it. And then Oikawa whimpers, and starts moving, and—

Time may vanish; certainly, the rest of the house does. For long moments, Hajime cannot comprehend anything except the feel of Oikawa around him, the weight of Oikawa against him, the scent of Oikawa overwhelming him. He kisses everything he can reach, runs his palms over the rest. It seems that his inhibitions, his coherency, all of his good senses are draining from him, spilling over to make room for the pure sensation that Oikawa is pouring in.

“Oikawa,” he gasps into whatever patch of sweet-smelling skin is under him, barely grasping onto his lucidity. “You’re—haah—in heat.”

“Pre-heat.”

“You’ll get pregnant.”

“Unlikely.”

“You’ll get pregnant,” says Hajime, dragging his mouth down Oikawa’s pec to his stiffened nipple, unable to stop his mouth. His mind is too full of Oikawa; his thoughts are no longer passing through it, but falling directly from his lips. “And you’ll have to miss the inter-high, and it’ll be my fault and you’ll castrate me and never speak to me again.”

“Iwa-chan—hnng—you’re a beta, and they have meds for that, so—”

“You’ll get all soft—and fat, and your belly will be,” Hajime drags his palm over it as he thrusts, feeling it undulate, “so round, full of pups, and your breasts will come in.” He applies his tongue to Oikawa’s nipple, then his teeth, delighting in the texture of it, groaning when he brazenly imagines it heavy and swollen and dripping. He can feel, from the inside, Oikawa jolting with every nibble. If there were room left in his brain, he would be shocked at himself. “You’ll be leaking milk all the time. I’ll have to carry you around.”

“You, aah,” gasps Oikawa, fisting a hand in Hajime’s hair to hold him in place as his hole clenches down impossibly tighter, “are such a pervert, Iwaizumi-kun.”

In response, Hajime switches nipples, his fingers picking up on the other side where his mouth left off. Oikawa arches his back, head falling back with a stuttered cry as his hips work faster, crushing down into Hajime's lap with each thrust up. A moment later he’s coming again, spasming around Hajime’s cock. Hajime moves to bite at his collarbone, imagining that he can taste the bruises left there by other people.

“Tooru,” he says, digging the word out of the darkest corner of his brain where it has lived in stupid, childish fantasy for years, just to feel the shape of it in his mouth. “ _ Tooru. _ ”

Oikawa wails, rakes his fingers across Hajime’s back. “Hajime.”

Wildly, Hajime tips Oikawa back until he’s collapsed bonelessly on the sheets, glassy-eyed and still twitching, and fucks down into him. It takes an embarrassingly short time for Hajime to come, a burst of fresh heat adding to the wetness. Oikawa purrs when he does, jerking a little; a little extra come drips from his cock onto his belly.

“Scent me,” he slurs, reaching blindly for Hajime’s head. Hajime grabs one of his hands, interlacing their fingers so the scent glands there can touch, and drags the other palm over every place he can reach; Oikawa’s cheeks, his temples, digging his fingers into Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa, eyelashes fluttering, manages to find Hajime’s face with his free hand and presses his palm so firmly to the gland behind Hajime’s ear he almost loses his balance.

The sensation of Oikawa stroking his scent glands is too much; it feels like safety and trust and mate, and embarrassingly, he can feel the hot twinge of tears building. He leans into Oikawa’s grasp, nuzzling against him; his free hand settles at Oikawa’s face, cupping his perfect cheek.

“Tooru,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. He’s allowed this. He’s been allowed this, and he can never bear to be without it again. “Tooru. Don’t let anyone else touch you again. If you need something, I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything. Let me be the one who takes care of you. Whatever you need. Please”

“Hmm,” Oikawa sighs, “I might need a lot. I’m spoiled, you know.”

“I don’t care.” Hajime knows that much about him. “I want to spoil you. Every day. Forever.”

Oikawa opens his eyes. “Promise?”

Everything in Hajime has been trained on Oikawa since day one, aching toward him, reaching. They’re going to need a conversation, and soon, but Hajime knows he’s halfway to bonded already, his body chemistry helpless against Oikawa’s gravity. Hajime grips Oikawa’s hand tighter, and says, with no hesitation, “yes.”

* * *

(Oikawa’s heat lasts just four days, the only thing about him that Hajime has encountered so far that could be termed  _ low-maintenance. _ It turns out that his parents are on a trip; he had truly planned everything. Hajime, wracked with guilt, steals away when Oikawa is asleep and buys more condoms than two humans could possibly use in a month; Oikawa, indulgent in frankly irresponsible amusement, gamely applies himself to making Hajime go through as many as possible.

“It feels better bare,” Oikawa complains on the second day.

“Then get a fucking implant, we’re in  _ high school, _ ” roars Hajime.

In the end, he had nothing to worry about; there is no pregnancy scare, just a mortifying lecture from the school administration on the importance of not missing school due to careless medication errors during their senior year. But Oikawa opens a calendar app on his phone and counts the years til the next Olympics, and then the next, and then the third one after that, and Hajime thinks, with a terrifying hope: one day.)

* * *

_ coda _

“One more, Kindaichi-kun!”

“Oikawa-senpai, please—”

“Come on, if you have breath to talk back, you’re not working hard enough! One more!”

Hajime, on his water break, offers a silent prayer of strength for Kindaichi.

“Man, if Oikawa gets any more scary, he’s going to steal the vice captain job right out from under me,” remarks Matsukawa.

“Vice captain, my ass,” scowls Hajime, gruff to disguise how proud he is. “As if he’ll settle for second best. We’re going to wake up one day and he’ll have taken over the whole team and become prime minister overnight.”

“If you speak it, it’ll come to pass,” says Hanamaki warningly.

“Mattsun! Makki! That’s not the sound of you two slacking off, is it? We have to set a good example for our darling kouhais!”

“This is your fault,” says Hanamaki viciously, as Matsukawa groans and jogs back onto the court. “You bonded him, and now he’s all happy and balanced and full of authority. You unleashed the monster.”

“How is it my fault that nobody on this team can keep up with an omega?” Hajime bites back, but the idea of being responsible for Oikawa being  _ happy and balanced _ is too much, and tugs up the side of his mouth in a smile. Hanamaki pulls a disgusted face at the sight.

“Iwa-chan!!”

“He doesn’t even call you captain anymore,” says Hanamaki mournfully. “How quickly the magic fades.”

“Come on,” barks Hajime, making his way back toward the court to where his setter and mate is busy terrorising the underclassmen. “We’ve got matches to win.”

When Oikawa glances at him, he’s smiling; and Hajime knows, together, they’ll win them all.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote the first chunk of this intending it to be an irredeemably horny PWP, and now i have 12,000 words of a very tortured furry romcom. unfortunately, iwaizumi and oikawa continue to be in love. thanks for putting up with my weird hobbies. twitter @jocknerdromance / tumblr @sapphicdalliances!


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